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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429036">Letters to Who You Once Were</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskyWrites/pseuds/RiskyWrites'>RiskyWrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Diary/Journal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Howlies - Freeform, Letters, Love, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control Aftermath &amp; Recovery, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Steve Rogers, Past Brainwashing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Trauma, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers &amp; Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Team as Family, WWII, deprogramming, selective mutism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:08:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429036</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskyWrites/pseuds/RiskyWrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear Bucky,</p><p>If you're reading this, then it means that this was a success. That my shot in the dark was worth it. If you're reading this, then maybe, just maybe, some of the damage that they did to you was reversed. Maybe all this hard work was worth it in the end.</p><p>I don't know if you'll ever come back to me. I don't know if you'll ever be my Bucky again. But I can hope. And I can try. </p><p>We're in this together, buddy. Until the end of the line.</p><p>- Steve</p><p>(Updates weekly!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton &amp; Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers &amp; Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers &amp; Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers &amp; Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This feels weird to write and I don’t really know where to start. I wish I could give any one person credit for this idea, but it’s sort of a group effort, and it’s certainly not mine. You know me, I’ve never been good at journaling. Well. I take it back. You don’t know me. Not right now. And that’s the problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone has their opinions on this, and everyone thinks I’m doing this wrong – but everyone has different reasons </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s wrong. Tony thinks I’m setting myself up to get my throat slit in the night. That you’re a weapon. But… so am I. Nat thinks I’m setting myself up for heartbreak. That the person I knew – the person I dropped – is gone and not coming back. And… I know that. I’ve come to terms with that and thrust aside the idea that you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bucky, may never come back. But there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> behind your eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> that deserves a chance to live. If that someone comes out and decides that he never wants to see my face again, then I’ll respect that. But I want to get you to a point where you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>decide</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Where you aren’t just an animal awaiting orders. Whatever choices you make, I will help you realize them. As long as they are choices that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>are making. Not anyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fury thinks I’m nuts. He was my biggest hurdle. He thought you should be locked up and let the ‘specialists’ work on you. But none of them know you. Not like I do. We had what you used to call a ‘lively debate’ which ended when I put my fist through a wall. Six inches of tempered steel. It took two tries. But… we came to an understanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hill requested I document your progress. That’s… not what this is. This is more of Clint’s idea. He said that one day you’ll start to break through. And when that happens, you’re going to have a lot of gaps to fill. Hopefully I can give you a head start once you start to come back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today we moved you from containment to the Compound. I’ve locked up my DC apartment in exchange for a suite here – something I’ve honestly wanted to do for a while but I guess you gave me the excuse. It’s safer here. I can put the room on lockdown if anything happens and if something awful </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> go wrong, well... Your neighbors are assassins and soldiers. Not old grannies and nurses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know you’re scared. Don’t worry, you’re not showing it. But no one stands that rigid and that tense if they’re feeling confident and relaxed in their surroundings. As I finished moving our stuff in, just a duffel bag of clothes and basic necessities you just… waited. As if certain that the shadows would leap out at you. As if you thought I was setting you up for a trap. I promise, Bucky. I will never hurt you. But I don’t tell you that. Not right now. It’s not what you want to hear and it would just make you distrust me more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, I tell you to make yourself comfortable. You respond just with a glare. That’s okay. That’s just fine. Glaring is agency and that’s my end goal, right? To give you agency. To give you what they took away from you. Will this work? I have no idea. So instead, I tell you to have a look around. That seemed to work. Kind of…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You immediately started patrolling the room like a dog hunting for a scent, checking everything. Behind the curtains, in the hinges of each of the cabinet doors, the air vents, everywhere. You came and stood before me as I watched from the couch, and it took me a moment to realize you wanted me to stand so you could check that too. You’re thorough. I’ll give you that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you were finally satisfied, you actually spoke for the first time in days. Your voice was raspy from lack of use and I wish it was more than a simple report of the cameras and microphones you had found. I was impressed. And I told you as much. I told you I was proud, and you seemed… surprised. I asked JARVIS to show us the security cameras and mics that were authorized and the AI lit them up like a Christmas tree. At my request, you compared their locations to the ones you found and once satisfied that they were only the authorized ones, you seemed to relax. This… really wasn’t what I meant when I told you to look around. But anything to make you calm down…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now you’re sitting beside me. Tense but I suppose for a first day, I can count this a win. You’re going to be okay, Bucky. I promise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Steve</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dear Bucky,</p><p>I told you I’m not good at this journaling thing. But I’m tired, and I know that’s not an excuse. I knew that this project was going to be a lot of work, but I’ve never shirked from work before. I knew it was going to involve a lot of pain, but I’ve never backed down from a fight. </p><p>What I didn’t expect was how much I’d <em> miss </em>you… Miss you when you’re right here. When you’re so close I can touch you, and I try to touch you as much as I can. You hate it. Obviously. But the list of things you don’t hate is relatively short right now. </p><p>You hate when I call you Bucky. It confuses you, I know. On the first night, I made the mistake of trying to explain what it meant. Who was Bucky. Who <em> you </em> were. Who <em> we </em> were and why I was doing this. </p><p>In honesty, I expected you to snarl, to get angry and lash out. But instead you just… shut down. Your eyes went dull like it was too much to process and you stared somewhere into the middle-distance. I wish you’d have lashed out. Somehow silence was more disturbing.You haven’t acted like I expected you to in many ways. </p><p>You hate mealtimes. Obviously I can’t trust you with cutlery, and I’m sure it’s degrading to be chained to a chair, but you haven’t tried to break the cuffs. I’ve heard you test them when you think I’m distracted. I know you know you can easily snap the metal. You don’t know that I know you won’t. What I don’t know is <em> why </em> you won’t. I want to believe it’s because you know I’m trying to help you, but that’s just the optimist in me. Maybe it’s because in some ways you recognize me as your new… what? Controller? Handler? Baby steps, I guess.</p><p>I’ve tried to give you choices at every turn. Do you want mac and cheese or do you want soup? Do you want water, milk or soda? But you stare at me as I hold up your options. And I stare right back. It’s a battle of wills every time. I don’t know if it’s hurting you or helping you, but I back down and make the choice each time you refuse. Rebellion is agency. Agency is what I’m trying to teach you. I keep telling myself that. </p><p>Strangely, you don’t give me trouble when I feed you. I know you don’t like being spoon fed. Especially when I misjudge and clip your teeth. I’m sorry I can’t trust you right now. But I can’t even predict you. </p><p>Sometimes you’ll be fine. Well. ‘Fine’. You’ll be passive and calm and silent, as if awaiting instructions. Then the next you’re a flurry of movement, grabbing a pen I carelessly left out on the coffee table and lunging for my femoral artery. You miss, but only because my reflexes rival yours. I almost dislocated your wrist before you’d release it, and when I demanded to know why you’d attacked, all you could snarl was that I was your mission. </p><p>I’m sorry. I know it hurt you. I should have released you sooner but it took you almost an hour to stop struggling. You didn’t wince or even try to pull away. But I saw how you rolled your hand around and around when you were calm enough to let go. I wish you’d tell me if you hurt. I wish you’d tell me more than what percent capacity you’re able to perform at. I wish you’d <em> talk </em> to me. Anything. Something. </p><p>I miss you Buck… But I promise, I let you down once. I will never give up on you.</p><p>-Steve.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The list of things I never expected to do keeps growing. Every evening after mealtime I move you to the bedroom, hands and legs tied up because you're getting too creative with ways to try and murder me. But that's okay because we're going to watch colorful television shows that will help relax you. If you ever stop growling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...I have to put on subtitles because you just won't stop growling. I'd try kissing you like in fairy tales but at this point getting my face bitten off is still a legitimate concern</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every morning you wake up with a familiar glint that lasts just a little bit longer every time. But it hasn't stuck yet. Still it's enough to be hopeful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I get the idea that maybe being left alone all day isn't helping, so I’ve been trying and bring you along with my non-critical stuff. It's hard. You lock your heels and refuse to walk, so I have to carry you over my shoulder. Eventually you stop beating me in the back with your fists and just accept it. Well maybe not accept. More like tolerate. I talk to you the entire time as if you're not trying to puncture my kidneys through the sheer force of misguided rage. As if somehow the constant sound of my voice might break through to that person I see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually I was able to just let you ride in the basket of the cart when I'm shopping. You've figured out you won't get far running anyhow so you only try to escape a few dozen times. Still, you seem to prefer moping in the cart to moping on my shoulder and it really is more convenient to have both hands free anyhow. Maybe one day I can even put my groceries in with you without you trying to use the hard edges of cereal boxes to murder me with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Baby steps</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every time we go to the store -- which is daily because I want to build a routine for you -- I stop first in the fruit section and get you a plum. You don't always eat it. Sometimes you sit and hold it as if it were a lifeline. Sometimes you guard it to your chest. I like to think that it's a comfort to you, like a stuffed animal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In reality you're probably imagining it's a grenade and you can blow me up at any second. That's fine too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One day I'm distracted. I have a lot on my mind, not the least of which being that maybe I'm not making any progress with you. I know you're in there, Buck. I know there's more to you than the Winter Soldier. Sometimes you say my name when you sleep -- though you don't sleep often. But any case, I'm distracted. And I forget to get your plum. I don't notice the way you're watching the display, or the flicker of confusion as I pass it on the way to the apples or carrots or whatever. I have too much on my mind and I'm not paying attention to what's important. I don't recognize your first soft grunt, as if you're trying to get my attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>recognize the second one though, louder, more demanding. Not words though. Just tense body and furious eyes and a half-growl/half-grunt because you don't know how to have emotions other than anger and that's okay. I realize what's going on and get you your plum, apologizing profusely. When I hand it to you, you let your fingers touch my hand for longer than usual and the tension leaves your body. You have your bauble or your grenade or whatever it is to you and you relax. You actually look at me. And the word you whisper sounds suspiciously like my name. Maybe we're making progress after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Steve</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I wish I had the words to tell you how proud I am of you. I wish I had a way to let you know just how far you’ve come in just a handful of weeks. I wish I had someone who would understand how big these little victories really are. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They try. They really do. Clint is the most enthusiastic, but I can tell he’s struggling to figure out what specifically he’s supposed to get excited over. I guess from the outside, it doesn’t make sense. Normal, functioning people don’t stand like robots waiting for an order. They don’t have to be commanded to sit or to lay or to use the restroom when they need to. I still feel awful for not realizing that one sooner. It’s foreign to them, just like it’s foreign to me. And they don’t understand why it’s such a big deal when you do things a normal person does. When you simply leave to use the toilet because you need to, without waiting for a reminder to alert me to command you to. Or when you decided you were tired in the middle of the day and laid down on the couch to rest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was so surreal. Something so basic, but so human. Something you’d been denied so long. We had been watching a documentary about colorful birds or something. I remember the vivid tails and the chaotic songs. I’ve been trying so hard to keep things calm and interesting for you. Warmth and color and sound. Hoping that either it would lure you out, or maybe you’d hate it so much you’d use your voice to demand I turn it off. But you seemed interested. I remember there was a part with a jaguar or a leopard or some other big spotted cat and you keyed in on it. I remember thinking that maybe we could try something about Africa next. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I was mulling about the details in my head, worrying if watching a hunt and a kill -- even if it were animals -- may be too much and make you backslide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’d taken off your wrist and ankle binds -- the hobbles, is what Nat called them -- two days before. You hadn’t tried to attack me and I was hanging onto that tiny sliver of hope. The little glimmer that maybe you were starting to improve. Or maybe I’d just worn you out. Maybe this was all futile. Maybe everyone was right…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your sudden movement startled me. One moment you’d been sitting straight on the opposite end of the couch, like you always were. Hands resting on your thighs, watching the screen calmly. Just like always. Then suddenly you were moving towards me. But not </span>
  <em>
    <span>at</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, simply… near me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’d slumped sideways unceremoniously and without instruction, eyes still on the screen but I could see your lids getting heavy. One hand hung off the side of the couch, your metal one curled under you. Gently, ever so gently and afraid to break the spell, I reached down to pet your hair. You stiffened for a moment, your eyes going wider, but as my fingers moved through your dark locks, you relaxed and they slowly closed again. I’m not sure if you slept. But even if you didn’t, you certainly looked peaceful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pet your hair as I watched the screen, commanding myself not to cry. Not to cry. Not to cry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I didn’t cry. Not that time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I rode the high of that progress for two days. Two days of eagerly telling anyone who would listen that you napped. On your own. Without prompting. Two days of hollow responses, friends trying to be supportive but simply not… understanding. They tried. They really tried. But without living through this, day by day, without understanding just how desperate your situation is… I can’t really expect them to relate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I miss you. And I feel so alone in this. But I know that however alone I feel, you must feel a thousand times more. Alone and lost.  But I’m here. And I’ll get you through this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today however, was the real breakthrough. We’ve stopped getting curious looks in the store now. I think they’re used to our routine. You’ve gone from openly hostile, to sulking, to disinterested, to quiet curiosity of the world around you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today we went through our usual dance. You had your plum, and I was trying to decide on two options for dinner. You always have to have options. I don’t know where I heard that, or when I decided that, but you always had to have the choice to pick. Usually you would just glare at me, or pointedly ignore me, but the last few days you had been focusing on me when I spoke. Like you were listening. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span> listening. But you still wouldn’t choose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today I had picked out two options. A box of some sort of noodles and meat with a sauce, or hotdogs with canned chili. You were watching me as I spoke, and when I held up the box or the can, your eyes moved to study either. My heart was pounding so hard. I explained to you what each was. I showed you the instructions on the back of the box. I described to you how chilidogs worked. And you looked at one. Then you looked at the other. And you looked at me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You held you plum to your chest. Your good luck token. Your daily snackrifice. I could hear my heart in my ears. I asked you, slowly and deliberately. Which would you like? The box mix? Or the can. And then, in my mind, I started to count down from sixty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When your eyes landed on the box and stayed there, I held my breath. And then when you cautiously and intentionally moved your plum fully into your right hand, my heart stopped in my chest. But when you reached out with your left hand to firmly press your finger into the cardboard, I suddenly couldn’t see. The world was blurry and suddenly hot and all I could do was nod and bite my lip to keep my chin from quivering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I handed you the box and it joined your plum against your chest. It was sheer force of will that kept me from sobbing right there in aisel 14, but I couldn’t stop the tears that ran down my cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I wish I had someone who could understand this with me. I wish I had someone who knew how important this was. Right now you’re sitting at the table, watching the pot on the stove like you’re counting down the seconds left to cook in your head. I did away with the cuffs today. Maybe I’ll let you try a spoon. Or maybe I’m pushing you too far too fast. Maybe this will end up being my last entry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t care though. All I care about is that this is the best damn dinner you’ve ever eaten. Because you chose it. Because it’s yours.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Steve</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mornings are so hard. Sometimes I wake up and my first thoughts are of failure. I've failed you. I've failed my team. I think how much kinder it would be to just finish this for good. It'd be easier now, you trust me enough to let me touch you. And I'm more than strong enough to snap your neck. You’d never know what happened. But even in my dark fantasy, the idea of your innocent gaze, just for me to betray you makes my stomach twist. Invariably, I spend the rest of my morning laying quietly in bed trying to decide how I would follow you. There are far less options than when I was 24. Stupid serum.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t say this to scare you. I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt you. Dark thoughts are just that -- thoughts, they come and they pass. I'm telling you them at all because one day when you're on your own, you're going to have dark thoughts too. I'm telling you this so that you know you're not alone, there is no shame in needing help. There is no weakness in sharing your pain. I show you that I struggle because I know you will struggle. And to prove to you that it will pass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually the clouds lift enough to realize I'm stuck and spiraling and I text Sam. The man is a saint. It doesn’t matter what’s going on, or how much I try to deflect or minimalize what’s happening, he’s always right there to cut through my bullshit and help me untangle the mess in my head. We go through the usual battery of questions, he has more intensity and sincere concern than even the most gentle SHIELD counselors had when I was trying to adapt to the new world. I’m going to owe him a beer and a pizza.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Am I in crisis? (No) Is Bucky in crisis? (No) Can he call?  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shift enough to see where you lay, and though I can’t tell if you’re awake, you’re not stirring. (Yes. Five minutes) And then I carefully rise and slip out to the bulk of the apartment, closing the door silently behind me. I spend those five minutes pacing and staring at my phone. How am I going to phrase this in a way that doesn’t make me sound crazy? Or like I’m giving up? What can I say that won’t have you taken away from me? Or just prove that everyone was right, that this experiment isn’t working. I’ve almost figured it out, a mental script, a speech, when he calls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five minutes exactly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I answer the phone, his tone is so friendly and gentle and familiar my script is out the window. All my prudently chosen words are gone and I’m babbling. It’s all coming up like vomit, my words are tripping over each other and everything is laid bare, even the things I wanted to hide. Especially the things I wanted to hide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I tell him about the dark thoughts. I tell him how scared I am, that I’m worried you’re not progressing, that I’ve failed you. That maybe I’m doing more harm than good. You don’t talk anymore. Before when I asked a question, you would answer but mechanically. Affirmative. Negative. Strict factual answers or nothing at all. Now for the most part, it’s nothing at all. When you want something you stare at me with such intensity that it’s like you’re willing me to understand what you need. What you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. As if you’re trying to force your thoughts into my brain. And sometimes it works. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I can’t figure it out and in your frustration you’ll start growling, your muscles twitch like you’re fighting or you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to fight. Your fingers spasm like you want to tear at your face or your hair or tear down the walls that are keeping you from communicating. In the end the fight leaves your eyes and you retreat inward again, resigned that whatever it was you needed, you weren’t going to get. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hate that… I hate knowing I’ve let you down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I tell him all of it. That I’m scared I’m infantilizing you. That I’m making it worse instead of better. That I’m hurting you. He listens to all of it without interrupting, and when I’m finally spent, he’s quiet for a long moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam tells me he’s glad I called, that he’s been waiting for it for a while. He walks me through our usual grounding exercises, guided breathing and sensory awareness stuff. It helps, like it usually does. Soon I’m feeling calmer, but still miserable. He tells me that it doesn’t sound like I’m failing at all. That it sounds like I’m making great strides. When I scoff, he tells me that there’s no ‘right’ way for your improvement to look. He tells me that I’ve been living with you for months and you haven’t killed me yet. I haven’t had to remove your arm like Tony was pushing for. He asks me to tell him a recent win, no matter how small.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t even have to think about it. A night or two ago, after our successful shopping trip, it was the first night I’d let you feed yourself. I’d talked to you while I made the box you’d picked -- cheeseburger mac it’d turned out to be -- and asked you seriously, if I gave you a metal spoon, would you attack me? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first few weeks, you would have responded immediately, almost compulsively, that I was your mission. Sometimes with a snarl. Sometimes with a note of sadness. But that night you were silent. That night your brows twitched ever so slightly in surprise. Your facial expression rarely changes, but those tiny motions tell me so much. You didn’t answer. Instead you stared at me again, willing me to know what’s going on in your skull. I think you’re telling me that you don’t want to lash out. You want to be better. You want to try. I hope I’m right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I put the bowl in front of you, warning you that it’s hot, instead of dragging the chair closer to start our usual routine, I sit adjacent to you and fuss with mine, waiting for it to cool down. You waited, unsure, then looked at your hands, unbound at your sides. I was very careful to keep my body language calm -- you can and do pick up on even the tiniest of shifts from me. One time I tensed at an unfortunate news article and you went immediately into high alert, patrolling the apartment like you had done the first time and reporting back no changes. I don’t want that to happen tonight. I want to see what you’ll do. As your flesh fingers closed around the metal, it was the moment of truth. Would you revert and attack me? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The explosion of movement I’m anticipating never comes. You’re cautious and you gently manipulate your tools are if getting used to the motions all over again. Something so delicate, so mundane. I feel bad for denying you such a simple task for so long. You’re cautious, shifting the noodles and meat around before tentatively bringing a bite to yourself. It’s steaming and you sniff it, as if concerned it’s poisoned. Whatever you smell though, it’s isn’t poison, and when you take a bite, the expression on your face is unmistakable. Pride.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> did this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> chose the food and </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> are responsible for your own nurishment. You start devouring it with gusto and when I praise your choice, I swear there’s a ghost of a smile. I’m pretty sure you’re burning your mouth. I’m absolutely sure you don’t care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In honesty, I think it needs salt, which is ridiculous for how much sodium that crap has. And if you pick it again, I’ll doctor it a bit with some chopped pickles and onions. Maybe a squirt of ketchup and mustard on top. I don’t tell you this though. Because it’s not important.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’ve forgotten that Sam’s on the phone with me, and I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks up again. He tells me this is obvious progress, that I’m expecting too much of myself and that I’m doing a good job. He tells me that no one could do what I’m doing, but I don’t believe him. Anyone could do it, and probably better than I am. I don’t tell him that, I don’t feel like being chided. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam suggests expanding your social circle. He says it’d be good for you to be around more people in small doses, now that you’re more stable. He doesn’t outright say, but he does strongly imply that I need a break and this would be a good way to get one. I tell him we’ll see. He asks me for a timeframe. Bastard knows me too well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three days. Three days and I’ll see how well you play with others.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Steve. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dear Bucky,</p><p>I’ve spent hours, days, weeks trying to understand what you need to draw you out. Trying to decide what you need to heal. To repair. I’ve been thinking so much about what you need to move forward that I didn’t think about what brought you here.</p><p>To be honest, a large part is because I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about the things they did to you before I got to you the first time. Or what it means that I didn’t go back for you. I know, logically and morally, that to go back for you would have destroyed the entire mission. That a single, tiny victory would have meant a massive defeat. I know, morally and logically, that your death, your sacrifice, was necessary.</p><p>But my heart tells me those are all lies. A victory for the Allies was a defeat more than my soul could bear. I traded your life for a thousand others. They say it was a fair deal. They told me the knowledge of what you did should have given your sacrifice enough weight to bring comfort to this pain, but my heart is so heavy every time my memories stray to that day I can barely move. I’m encased in ice and there’s nothing I can do to take it back. I will never make such a deal again. We don’t trade lives. Never again. </p><p>Tony likes to expound that the ‘lives of the many outweigh the lives of the few’, and I think that’s a quote from something from the way he puffs his chest when he says it, the strange stoic expression he gets. One day I’ll ask but… I disagree. I can’t put it to words. Not logically, not morally. But…</p><p>To think about what my betrayal to you meant. To think about what they did to you, what they turned you into. A weapon.</p><p>I think that’s where I need to start looking. I’m not trying to drag the Man out of the Weapon. I’m trying to let the Man put <em>down </em> the Weapon. I’m looking at your situation all wrong.</p><p>When I was new to all this, barely a few weeks of bootcamp under my belt, an absurd amount of time being a dancing, singing trained monkey, and suddenly deciding to rush headlong into a battle I knew I wasn’t coming out of, I… made a lot of mistakes. I know this because you used to enjoy spouting them to me whenever you could smell another bad idea coming. </p><p>I barely knew how to shoot, I knew very little of group tactics, I was bullheaded, I didn’t understand half of my standard gear, I didn’t know how to use cover, I didn’t do the bare minimum to keep myself safe -- your list would go on. But I think you missed one. One that was very important, but if you heard me say it, you would scoff. You would scoff and Sam would scoff and Nat would scoff and Tony would probably leave the room -- I feel like Clint might be on my side for this one though. Thor might be on board too.</p><p>My biggest mistake was thinking too much. </p><p>I know. I can hear you rolling your eyes now but don’t. Hear me out. We are -- were -- weapons, you and I. And a weapon’s natural state is stillness of mind. A gun doesn’t think, it just fires. A shield doesn’t agonize over a thousand what-ifs. It takes the blows as they come. Overthinking is the mistake of an amateur. A real weapon, a real human flesh and bone Weapon must push back all thoughts, push back humanity and become silent like an animal. Only when you’re silent can you feel the spaces in your head, the ones that before were filled with a cacophony. And it’s there where the true knowledge sleeps. The quiet, ancient pieces of ourself that we’ve given up in return for cars and electric lights and pretty stories about birds with chaotic songs, and walls full of colorful boxes demanding we pick them over the others and music and love and pain.  The ancient Pieces of ourselves whose only focus is Survival. </p><p>The Pieces are stronger than you. And they're smarter than you. And they know how to survive in a way that the Thinkers and the Men never will. You have to let the Pieces out, let them take over. Embrace that primal, animal instinct. That quietness. You become naturalistic, comfortable in that Animal state whose only meaning is to Survive. Or prevent others from surviving.</p><p>I remember the first time I felt that quiet, the first time that ancient part took over. We were in Bitche when the argument broke out. I remember because you and Dugan refused to stop loudly announcing where we were, much to Dernier’s frustration. The name sounded much different with our accents. I was restless and eager to keep moving, but we’d missed a resupply just outside of Hambach, a day’s march in the wrong direction. I was restless, I was full of energy and I knew I was fast. It was my idea to go back and retrieve the supplies myself, giving the rest of you time to regroup and coordinate our next moves. </p><p>The area seemed secure. You were armed. And again, I was <em>fast </em>. I ran the entire way and made it in just a couple of hours. The feel of the wind against my face, the power in my legs that had let me down for so long, my once weak lungs now like bellows, it was still so new and so novel. I’d loaded myself up with supplies, practiced my faltering French with some locals and made some good trades. Some soft cheese from a farmer after I’d gifted him a sketch of his adorable daughter and her stuffed lambie. Cured meats in exchange for helping haul a cart out of the mud. A bottle of wine because they found my French amusing. Because they liked the star on my chest. I’d made such good time I stayed an hour to see what sort of things I could barter to bring back. </p><p>When I returned, it was after sundown, but I could hear the pop of artillery before I could see where I’d even left you. As I crested the hill, the Weapon took over. </p><p>I remember the rest of that night poorly. Planning and thought and concentration were thrust from my mind, exchanged instead for raw instinct and power. I had no gun, I’d never liked them, armed only with my shield I didn’t hesitate and I didn’t stop. Sometimes, like now, I can remember brief moments. I remember the crunch as the edge of my shield split a skull. I remember the moment of resistance and the strain of muscle it took to cut through vertebrae. I remember the trundle of an approaching tank and I remember ripping the hatch from its hinges before groping blindly inside for the occupants. </p><p>I remember I was halfway through my dinner of bread and cheese before I came back to myself. I remember the look of surprise and caution on the other’s faces. I remember the look of worry on yours, your hand on my knee. I remember how frightening it was to realize what had happened. And that I hadn’t lost control. I had simply found silence. I had started that evening drawing pictures of local children for their loving parents. I had ended it killing seventeen men, decapitating four of them. I had brought back cherries from the village. </p><p>Now I think about what that means for you. For me, it was short bursts, single battles and then coming back to normal, finding myself, remembering my humanity. For you it was seventy years of <em> only </em>battles. Only the long periods of quiet. You didn’t get the luxury of humanity, and you didn’t get to put down your weapon. No one was there to gently shake your knee, to coax you back into conversation, to lure the life back into your eyes. </p><p>I wonder if you even know how anymore. </p><p>I am here for you. No matter how long this takes. No matter what the cost. I am here for you and I will not stop until you return to yourself, whoever that now may be. The spark is in your eyes. Let me fan the flame.</p><p>-Steve</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>To all my amazing, kind readers:</p><p>Your feedback and comments mean the world to me. To know that my little passion project has moved even one person brings me a joy that I don't have words for. <b>Thank you</b>. I hope to continue to share this journey with you for many weeks to come.</p><p>- R</p><hr/>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way you look at me whenever I speak does things to me. Not ‘bad’ things, necessarily, but things I don’t have a name for. There’s an intensity in your gaze, the way you watch my mouth move as if trying to memorize every gesture, every curve of my lip and flick of my tongue. The way your eyes flit up to mine, as if reassuring yourself that the words I’m speaking are true at face value. That there’s no hidden meaning or agenda you need to puzzle out. And then just like that they’re on my lips again. You hold your breath when I speak, as if afraid of missing a single syllable, a single breath. It gives me a sense of power I’m not sure I’m comfortable with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wish people listened so intently when I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>meaning</span>
  </em>
  <span> to make a speech.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After I had gotten off the phone with Sam, I went back into the bedroom to find you sitting up, brow knit, staring forward at nothing. It’s a look that Tony would probably call ‘rebooting’, a computer going through its scans and checks and whatever it is that computers have to do. I still don’t entirely understand them, I just begrudgingly use them. Parker once explained it to Thor and I as ‘domesticating electricity to trick a rock into thinking.’ So…. </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic</span>
  </em>
  <span> then. Computers are magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But to me, your expression reminds me of an old, tired motor, gears and pistons heavy with rust slowly moving, a little at a time, building speed and momentum. There’s a mechanical sputter as I enter the room, and as your eyes move to me I can feel you finding your stride. Soon you’ll be moving but you’re not there yet. It’s such a difference from the feral stare you used to give me, snapping from prone to vicious readiness in an instant. I prefer the slowness.  At least it tells me you’ve actually slept. Maybe it even means you feel safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I say your name and I greet you. I ask you how you slept, and as I come around to sit beside you, you lean forward and stare at my face in anticipation of every word. Do you wake up each morning afraid that this is a dream? That all the struggles we’ve been through were in your head? Do you think one day you’ll wake up and I won’t be here? Did you worry that today? I don’t ask you any of this, I’m not sure my heart could take the answer. It’s already strained with the tiny hints of joy on your face. The subtlest raise of your brows. The relaxed corners of your lips. The way your pupils widen when you look at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Am I your safe place, the same way you were mine all those years ago when we were growing up? The thought makes my heart flutter. Did my eyes change when I looked at you, too? I remember our youth as painful, sometimes violent, a constant struggle to roll a boulder up a hill. I remember anger, frustration and shame all living in my chest, struggling in a world that saw me as something I desperately didn’t want to be. Weak. Ineffective. Unfit. A runt. A waste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a date we went on, a lifetime or two ago, like we used to. Your gal was a real looker, but then again so were you. Mine was pretty in her own right, </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> outta my league. She was taller than me, and I remember the flush that came to her cheeks as she talked about science. She was smart. So smart, and I remember she had a way of saying things that made you feel silly for thinking otherwise. She spoke of genetics and biology, of fitness and a noble self-sacrifice for future generations of Americans. She spoke of how for some, it was their patriotic duty to spread the strength of their genes. Of how for noble others, it was to step aside and keep the waters pure. She touched my hair and I fell into her propaganda. She made me feel brave for acknowledging the truth the world was too kind to say outright. That I was a flawed design. That my destiny was solitude. That somehow, recognizing this made me noble. She was speaking to the darkest parts of my soul, her words were so honeyed that I lapped them from her hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know when you started listening, or how much you heard, but I remember the fury in your eyes as you yanked me away from her. Like she was poison, like she was a spider wrapping me in silk. You put yourself between us, your grip on my wrist so tight it hurt but I didn’t dare interrupt. You were snarling your own venom and fire at her and while I don’t remember the words, I remember the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ferocity</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You stormed off, draggin’  me behind, and when they asked how they were supposed to get home, you spat for them to figure it out their own damn selves if they were so smart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t understand why you were so upset, and I told you as much. I didn’t get why the truth bothered you so much, she was right. You should be happy, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> were a perfect genetic specimen, the prize of the human race. But you pulled a face like you’d stepped barefoot in dog crap and stalked faster, yanking me with you. I told you that for someone who considered himself a man of science, you sure were being close minded to hard facts. You growled at me that she’d been tellin’ me to go to Hell and I was ready to pick out luggage. I told you that maybe she was right. Maybe some people were just born to be a burden on others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heard the slap before I felt it. My head was blown to the side and if not for your grip on my arm, sturdy as a vice, I would have stumbled. The stinging pain bloomed across my cheek a moment later, and when I looked at you, I didn’t see anger in your eyes. I saw fear. Bone deep, </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul</span>
  </em>
  <span> deep fear. Fear that her seeds had been planted and that the poisonous vines had already wrapped around me. Fear that you’d come a moment too late, that you’d lost me. I saw the redness in your palm as you levelled a finger at my eyes, never looking away from me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk like that again, Steven Grant Rogers.” Your hands were trembling, in my face, around my wrist. And I knew that you were right. I knew that </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one</span>
  </em>
  <span> knew me the way you knew me. No one could see the true depths that I was. Not even myself. Only you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remember you pulled me to your chest and held me so tight that your arms were shaking. I remember your breath in my hair and I remember a hybrid of guilt and relief, knowing that I had you to see me as I really was. Even when I couldn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s my turn to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t tell you any of that. I’m not sure I intend to. After that night, we never spoke of it again. I felt too ashamed that I’d so readily bought into such a disgusting mindset as eugenics. And it took days for the fear to leave your eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, I told you we needed to discuss something very important. And you sat at the ready, as if awaiting orders. I told you I knew what you were feeling. That I knew what they’d done to you, and how frustrating and confusing everything must be right now. I told you about my own time as a Weapon. I told you about how you helped me remember who I was. I told you about Bitche. I told you about the Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You watched me the entire time, flickers of emotions across your eyes, your face otherwise stoic. You want to remember, but you don’t. You want to connect with me, but you can’t. That’s okay. You’re trying. I can see how hard you try. I tell you this too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take your hand and you let me, and I tell you what I need from you. I need you to break your silence. I need you to speak. More than affirmatives and negatives, more than status updates and reports. I need you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>speak</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me. You look away and try to draw your hand back, but I gently rub my warmth into your skin. I tell you I know you can do this. I know it’s scary, but I know you’re brave. I tell you that you don’t have to get it right the first time. That you don’t need to be perfect, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> have to be perfect because you already are to me. Finally you look at me again. And I tell you that all I want is for you to try. Not succeed. Just try. Okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look at me. And you swallow. And slowly I watch the muscles in your jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now I’m the one who watches your mouth. And I hold my breath to not miss a single word you say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Steve</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve always enjoyed silence. When we were young, a fever wrecked my ears and left me with an incessant ringing that grated on me constantly. After the serum, I could hear everything as if through an ear trumpet. I could tell you when a mouse sneezes four buildings over. I can tell who’s practicing in the firing range and using what weapon -- all the way from the café on the other side of town. I can hear every tick and every shift of gears in the wooden clock on the wall, the only thing here that’s older than us. And I had no idea how absolutely silent you had been until you made a point to not be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You took your mission seriously, but I can see the struggle with every word. There’s layers of barriers to work through for each utterance, each sound is a challenge and I watch the battle in your eyes. You can do this. I know you can. Because I need you to and you have never let me down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You started the morning emboldened, strutting to your usual chair at the table and looking at me expectantly. Your first triumph will be the same as your last – Choice. I grin at you, proud of your sudden confidence, though I myself am still shaken from the rough morning. I start about our routine, hunting down the canister of protein shake powder and not recognizing the lack of weight before I pull the lid off. Empty. Well. Empty enough to be just this side of useless. That’s irritating, but there’s enough for you, if a little light. When I pull open the fridge, there’s not quite enough milk for the single shake, so I use heavy cream instead. You need the calories anyhow, I tell myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I slide the glass into your hands and you’re watching me intently, eyes focused like a raybeam, like sunlight caught in a magnifying glass. No matter how hard I try to keep my emotions off my face, you read them as clearly as you ever have. The pride and confidence in your eyes is starting to slip, replaced with a tense readiness to act. I need to get better about projecting my frustration, but as I hunt for your breakfast, it gets worse instead of better. We’re out of eggs, so that’s out. No flour, the bacon’s gone bad. We go to the store every damn day, so how did I manage to run out of literally everything??</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m ready to tear at my hair, it takes all my willpower not to pace. But with one glance at you I can see my own growing distress echoed in your visage. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Calm down, Rogers. It’s just breakfast. You can figure this out</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s fine, I tell you as reassuringly as I can. We just have to get creative. I dig through the cupboards and manage to cobble together a peanut butter sandwich. I also find a box of some tooth-rot cereal that Barton likes so much. Good. We’re back on track. Choice. I bring them to you and explain each. I offer you the obviously superior peanut butter sandwich, or you can have the sugar-coated marshmallow bullshit. This time I don’t have long to wait before you decide. You’ve been staring at me, barely blinking, memorizing each syllable. You draw a breath, finding the sounds you want to make the words with, and then proudly and with only a little rasp, you tell me your decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sugar-coated marshmallow bullshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or kill you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you’re so proud, it radiates from you and all I can do is chuckle and concede. You get your candy disguised as food and I take the sandwich. When you’re done, we go back to our routine. This time though, once the television is on, you move to the floor to sit closer, listening intently. It isn’t until I hear you repeating phrases back under your breath that I realize what’s going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re practicing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You repeat what you hear, trying to mimic the tones and inflections. Trying to remember what it should feel like in your throat, in your mouth. Occasionally you grumble in frustration when it doesn’t sound like you want it to. This new life in you makes my heart swell. The soil survived the cold after all.You’re growing and it won’t be long until you’ve fully blossomed. I settle in to make a proper shopping list for tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hadn’t realized how little sound you make until you’re intentionally making it. Every murmur, every word you repeat fills the room with the most bittersweet song. You test the boundaries, louder here and there, glancing at me as if afraid you’ll be scolded. I catch your eye and smile and again you’re emboldened. Once you try a laugh, but your face doesn’t mirror the sound and the effect is eerie to say the least. Apparently you agree, because after a moment you grunt in disappointment and don’t try again. Baby steps, Buck. We’ll get you there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence I’d grown to love is gone now, filled with something better. Your voice is a comfort I didn’t realize I’d missed so badly. It’s a balm on my soul and I close my eyes to let each murmur, each grumble, each raspy attempt at a surprised exclamation flow through me. The silence of my suite had been a haven, a safety. Your gravelly babble has turned it into a home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I will always need this noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s enough that I relax. For the first time in weeks, in months, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> I relax. My sketchbook that had long been abandoned, hidden under the couch as if it’s some sort of shameful totem, finds its way back into my hands. With the life coming back into you, it’s coming back into myself as well. I spend the morning doodling, trying to capture this new light in your eyes, the way you lean forward just so, trying to commit that spark of determination onto paper. I edge the pages in vines and flowers and smile to myself as you are enraptured in a new show. One of the characters shares my name, and it’s become your new favorite word to practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Steven. Steven. Steven? Steven!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Angrily, joyously, with fevered passion, with whispered shyness. I have never heard such a beautiful word as my own name on your lips, and I melt into my own studies to enjoy this bliss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steven… Steven. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Steve</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” There’s an urgency to your tone and I’ve lost track of time. It must have been hours, the sun is shining through the kitchen window, stretching golden light into the room. I look up and realize you’re not being a magpie anymore, you’re actively trying to get my attention. There’s distress in your eyes, on your face. You stare at me, willing me to understand what’s wrong, then look pointedly back at the television. I join you on the floor and back the show up to gain context.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cartoon is so bright and colorful, at first I can’t imagine what has you so rattled, but I soon realize that the vibrancy and shine is deceptive. Bright colors should mean safety. Cartoons are meant for children and thus, are surface level and unassuming. At least, that’s how they were when we were young. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is no Steamboat Willie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I find myself enthralled with the short story, one I know nothing of but you have been watching all morning. The main character -- the one who shares my name, I quickly find out -- finds himself the unwitting guardian of a monster. It’s a literal monster in this case, but it’s implied that this ‘monster’ was a person at one point, someone who was damaged and broken down to a primal creature only fixated on survival. It’s not hard to see why it made you anxious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the story, the other characters find the Monster dangerous, repulsive, something to be put down. I can see the muscles in your back tense, your fingers curling into your palm. Steven -- the one who shares my name -- insists that he can heal her. He can tame her and bring her back into sanity. The others doubt him, call him naive and foolish but allow him to try. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re right. This strikes uncomfortably close to home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hand finds yours and I rest my palm against the metal. You don’t look at me, staring at the screen as if this is some mirror into your own future, but you do lean towards me just a little. As the story progresses, the boy is right -- mostly. The Monster becomes tamer, more predictable and protective, if still wild and still very much a beast. There is hope. And this is a cartoon, meant for children. The bright colors mean it will end with success. With hope and joy. So why are you growing steadily more tense?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve seen further than I have, and your breathing starts to grow shallow and tight. I soon see why. The shimmer and luster of such a vibrant world has lied to me -- lied to you -- lied to </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Something frightens the Monster and it reverts back into wild chaos. Not-Me-Steven tries to calm her down, but it’s too much. Even in his attempts to calm her, she hurts him inadvertently. In the end, despite his best efforts, she’s neutralized and it’s stated that no one can help them. Not the most powerful characters in their story. And not Not-Me-Steven. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel betrayed by a show meant for children. I feel my own heart racing at the implications, I feel your eyes turn to me and I don’t need to look to see the worry in them. You wonder if this will be you. If this endeavor is fruitless. If you’ll just revert back, if you’ll hurt me like she hurt him. I struggle to find the words I want to say, find the way to coax you, to let you know you’ve come so far, but I just stare at the credits, baffled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a show for </span>
  <em>
    <span>children</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it was meant to be bright and happy and gentle. The endings should be happy! The good guys save the day, the redeemable are redeemed! Instead I’m reminded firmly of how much the world has changed, how much it’s moved on without me. As much as I dislike this, it’s unfortunately accurate to life. Your redemption will not be linear. I can’t cure you with a kiss or a magic word. It will take work. And I might not be enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steve…” My name on your lips carries such weight. You will me to look at you, and the concern there makes my heart flare with stubborn determination. My hand comes to the back of your neck and I draw you to me. I press my forehead to yours, like we used to. Your breath washes over my face and I feel you relax, ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have you,” I whisper gently, and you breathing slows to listen to me. “I’m with you. Til the end of the line.” Our journey is far from over. And besides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not being enough has never stopped me before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Steve</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m sure by the time you read these, you’re going to be exhausted of hearing me gush about how proud I am of you. How amazed I am at how fast you’re improving. But I am. And you are. I will never cease to be surprised by what a modicum of kindness has done for you. Something as simple as praise and patience has turned you nearly overnight from the man who intensely studied my face, trying to read when a blow would come, to someone vibrant and eager, ready to explore and relearn your world.  It still breaks my heart to think of the confusion that flickered over your eyes when you braced for a pain that never came. But now you look to me as the reassurance to your worry instead of as the source of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the biggest test for you yet. Tomorrow we’ll see how well you do around people who aren’t me. Tomorrow we’ll see if that trust in your eyes remains when faced with so many unknowns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My phone has been blowing up all day. I think that’s the term for it. Blowing up? Sam started a group chat, and while I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>as</span>
  </em>
  <span> inept at technology as I was a few years ago -- thanks Tony -- I still can’t keep up with Clint’s constant banter. I think he types faster than he talks and it gets overwhelming quick. Normally I’d mute it -- thanks Nat, for showing me how -- but this time it’s about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They’re excited. The culmination of </span>
  <em>
    <span>three months</span>
  </em>
  <span> of hard work with you and I can finally show off the fruits of my labor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m anxious. I’m not sure you’re ready. I don’t want to tell them that, but I do despite my better judgement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam immediately switches gears, from sassy bullshitting with Clint to the voice of logic and reassurance. He tells me things I already know, that I’ve been working tirelessly with you. How drastically I’ve told him you’ve changed. Clint on the other hand, ramps up the chatter. What could possibly go wrong, he asks? Tony is quick to chime in with his own theories of impending doom, which Clint immediately one-ups. The game is on, and within minutes they’ve found ways to turn this little get-together into a potential world-ending event. Nat is uncharacteristically silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well I’m glad they’re enjoying this, because in each exaggeration I can see the real possibilities. You’re good around me, but I’ve been working with you for months and I have only scratched the surface of your brainwashing. Only now is the glimmer of the man you could be -- the man you </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> starting to expose itself. All the damage they did to you is still there, I see it sometimes behind your eyes. I see you slip, watch you get lost in thought. I still see the Soldier there. And he may never go away. He may always haunt you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m overwhelmed. I put my phone on the table next to my pen and try to ignore it. Beside me, you glance over, a smile not on your lips, but in your eyes. In your lap is my sketchbook, closed, but protected by your hands. Your eyes are curious, questioning me, but you don’t speak. In response, I just lean back and try to focus on whatever show we’re watching today. My phone won’t stop vibrating on the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually I grab it and silence it. I’m loathe to admit, it takes a few moments to remember how to turn off the vibration setting. The buzzing stops. I can finally relax.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re still watching me, and as I slide down into a more comfortable position, it happens again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Zzt zzt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I actually swear out loud, and your brows raise. Grab the phone. Check the settings. Nope, vibration is still off. Weird. Maybe it was my imagination. I set the phone back down and --</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Zzt zzt.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not possible,” I say aloud before I can stop myself. I remember the way you’ve read me before. The way you started to feed on my anxiety. I’m not going to let that happen over something as simple as wanting to bow out of a conversation. Not over a piece of technology. I pick my phone back up and decide to just power it down. The StarkTech logo glows blue for a moment, then the device is just a black mirror in my hand, reflecting back my own stoic frown. Maybe I’m just being dramatic. Maybe I’m --</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Zzt zzt</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-- about to throw this phone when I see your head cant ever so slightly to one side. I look at you and realize that you haven’t reacted like you had previously. You’re not tense or guarded, you’re not ready to defend or attack if need be. Instead you’re looking at me with amusement. I meet your eyes and they’re… relaxed. But there’s something else I haven’t seen before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A ghost of a smile is still a smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Zzt zzt</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phone in my hand doesn’t vibrate. But I can see the plates on your mechanical arm momentarily blur. The ghost of a smile becomes just a little more corporeal. “James Buck,” I growl menacingly, but you don’t do me the service of looking menaced. “You are a jerk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You tilt your head as if considering this accusation, then simply nod and accept my conclusion. It’s good to see that the humor I saw in you yesterday only blossomed overnight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Last night, after it was decided we’d been watching far too much television lately, we went to the store, as was our usual routine. I tried something new, giving you the list I’d written out. I gave you a mission. You need to go down the list and tell me what we need. Out loud. At a volume I can hear. And as usual, you take your mission very seriously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take me long to realize that I should have spent more time organizing my list into a more coherent order. Grouped like items together instead of just how they came to me. Because you are taking this list </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> seriously. At first it’s fine. We get your plum, and you hold it with the list. I ask you what’s first and you announce ‘bacon’, your voice loud and deep and carrying. It almost startles me, but I enjoy it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Meat is on the opposite side of the store from produce, but whatever, I don’t mind. We head over there and pick out the bacon before handing you a pen to scratch it off the list. You do so proudly. “Onions,” you rumble and we’re back to the other side of the store. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Item procured, list checked. I ask what’s next. “Lunchmeat.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I glance back towards where we had just come and frown a little. I know there’s more produce, and I ask you to check. Your eyes skim the list, sharp as a razor and in an instant you nod in the affirmative. There is more produce. I wait for you to change your answer but you simply wait. Finally I ask again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s next on the list, Buck?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lunchmeat.” Your voice leaves no room for argument. You hold me in a firm stare, as if I’m an unruly student who needs to be checked before I get out of line. Lunchmeat it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Procured, checked, next. “Apples.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay we’re done. I demand you tell me what’s next on this side of the store. “Apples.” You repeat firmly. I frown at you. You frown right back. You have your mission and you clearly will not sway from the letter of the command. In the future, I need to be a lot more careful how I phrase things. For now at least. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Buck, we’re gonna be going back and forth all night at this rate.” Your jaw sets, your eyes narrow. Clearly that’s a ‘me’ problem, your glare says. “What else is on the list?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Apples.” You won’t sway, and when I reach to take back the list, you refuse to relinquish it. I can hear the motors in your arm whir as you tighten your grip on the paper. Fine. We’re winging it then. I spin the cart -- with you in it -- and head down the aisle to hunt for other things I know we need.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Apples!” You practically shout at me, but I’m not having it. I’m not doing what you want, and you don’t know what to do. “Steven! Apples!” Nope. I’m tired of going back and forth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stevie!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” you wail and finally I pause. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay here. New mission,” I say, trying again to take the list. You clearly see a solution to your distress, and as I look into your eyes, I see the 18 year old kid you used to be. You used to get this same desperate look about you when you were trying to talk me out of a bad idea and I was being particularly stubborn. I see the same hesitant glimmer of hope that maybe -- just maybe I’ll be willing to compromise in a way that won’t end with one or both of us washing blood out of our clothes. I may have had a flair for poorly conceived heroics in my younger days. Maybe I still do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But I tell you there’s a new mission and you reluctantly relinquish the list. The new mission is to look at the things we pass and let me know if any that look like something you want to try. You perk up. With words, I remind you, and your expression doesn’t dim this time. You can do words. You’ve been doing words all day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you do that?” I ask.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Able to comply,” you respond. Well. It’s better than staring at me and willing a ‘yes’ into my head I guess.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I have the list and we’re back on track. Now you’re back to being a magpie, repeating labels and boxes as we move up and down. Occasionally you’ll spot something you like and announce it more loudly. As long as it’s something that makes sense and isn’t too far out of my bachelor level cooking skill, I grab it for you. Before long we’ve amassed a decent collection. We’ll be set for at least a week.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While moving past some jars of pasta sauce, you read one aloud and I reflexively respond with “yuck.” I’d tried the brand before, it tasted chemically and over-sweet, but the idea of having a dissenting opinion seems to startle you. You look at me and tilt your head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yuck?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” You ask incredulously. I laugh and explain my experience to you, but you’re still turning the word over and over in your mind. You know this word -- god knows you used to trot it out whenever it was my night to cook, no matter how fast you cleaned your plate -- but it hadn’t occurred to you that you were allowed to not like something. “...Yuck.” You repeat softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now your commentary has expanded, and you pepper your opinions in amongst the parroting of the names or labels. Beets earn a yuck. So do mushrooms, though I don’t remember you having a problem with them before. Some exotic bananas with a red-brown skin earn a rather emphatic ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>yuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ but I explain that they’re supposed to look like that, they’re not rotten. You scowl at me for trying to ruin your game. Fine. Yuck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We’re halfway done when you let out a gasp and sit bolt upright. Previously you’d been lounging amongst our future dinners, about as close to ‘lazily’ as I’ve ever seen you. The sudden motion startles me, but you’re trying to reach an item we just passed and -- “Oreos! Oreos -- Steve -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oreos!!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All at once you’re my Bucky again. Cream-filled cookies, be they Oreos or the more expensive Hydrox, were your guilty pleasure before the war. Whenever we had enough extra money, we’d splurge on a canister and savor them for a week. I liked to break mine apart, let the cream melt on my tongue before nibbling the wafers. You ate yours whole, like an animal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I grab a pack and pretend to scrutinize it. “I dunno, Buck. Oreos? That’s kinda gross.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re gross.” You reply, and I’m so startled all I can do is gawk and try to decide if I really heard what I think I just heard.  The cart wobbles dangerously as you clamber forward and snatch it from my hands. The entire contraption rattles loudly with how hard you sit back again, ripping open the packaging and cramming two into your mouth whole, letting out a soft moan that’s either victory or pleasure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All I could do was shake my head, grab a few more packs for good measure, and head to checkout. “I’m not gross, Buck,” I tease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re gross, Stevie.” You repeat through a mouthful of cookie. I laugh so hard I have to stop, leaning over the hand rail to catch my breath as you just proudly shove more cookies into your maw. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder how many happy tears I’ve shed in this stupid store.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those same tears are threatening to blur my vision again, and I don’t realize your hand is extended towards me until you tap my arm. I glance down and you uncurl your fingers with your peace offering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of your precious oreos.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You might be a jerk, but you’re my jerk. As I pull mine apart to lick out the cream like a civilized man, you bite yours in half like a heathen, before opening my sketch book to browse it for the fifth time or so today.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I think you’re ready for tomorrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Steve</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dear Bucky,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today’s the day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If you’re excited, you’re not showing it. If you’re scared or nervous, you’re not showing that either. I know you know it’s coming, because I’ve mentioned it enough times that you reply with a long-suffering sigh and a grunt of acknowledgement when I bring it up. I think you want to get this over with. I think for you it’s a necessary challenge in order to… Well. In order to do a lot of things. In order to reclaim your humanity. In order to prove that you’re stronger than the Soldier, stronger than what they made you. In order to take the next step towards regaining a life of your own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or maybe just in order to placate me, the one person in this awful, confusing time who has struggled alongside you every step. I don’t like giving myself that much credit, so maybe it’s in order to shut me up, the one person in this awful, confusing time who won’t quit henpecking you long enough to get through this and gain a few moments peace. Yeah that’s probably the most accurate reason. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Last night you fell asleep on my shoulder. To your credit, it was very late and sleep can be tricky for me. Usually it’s fine, I have a normal rest schedule, if a bit on the sparse side. The serum means I can go long stretches without sleep, a skill that has proven incredibly handy for missions. The insomnia can last around four days before I start feeling the symptoms of any deprivation, and once it’s done I sleep harder than the dead. The first time it happened was around ‘43 when a mix of youth, stupidity and just a little sprinkle of justified rage had lead me to insist on wiping out a HYDRA base a bit more thoroughly than we’d originally planned. Every room had to be secured -- twice -- every hall, every vent, every mousehole had to be checked and rechecked personally. There could never be more victims left behind. There could be no aggressors unpunished. By the time the compound was cleared and then enthusiastically leveled, I’d lost track of time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I still don’t know how long I’d been up, except that I recall two separate sunrises and was underground or in the side of a mountain for a lot longer. The moment the job was done, stinking of dirt and ash and sulphur, I hit the bedroll and woke moments later, gasping against the noxious fumes of smelling salts and Dugan’s damn cigar. Apparently I’d been out an entire day and night, unable to be roused. As Howard closed the vial, his advice was to ‘maybe throttle it back a little’. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s happened a few times since then, again after pushing too hard, though this time with a different Stark. Tony loves to tell stories of times I’ve passed out on his couch after a mission, unable to be woken or moved. He likes to exaggerate just how heavy I am when unconscious, or just how in the way I was. I don’t know how many of his ridiculous exploits are factual but I choose to believe that every embarrassing story he tells about me is real. Because I’d rather believe a lie and hold out hope that it might be fiction than have him break out the surveillance footage and eliminate all doubt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight is different though. Tonight it’s an excitement I can’t shake, like a buzzing in my skin. Like Christmas when you’re about to give a gift you’ve been working real hard on and you don’t know if it’s gonna knock it out of the park or be a flop. I know I won’t sleep. Even if I try, I’ll lay in bed with my heart pounding and worry myself into a lather. For you it’s different, though. You seem to sleep better if I’m awake, as if you need someone to keep watch and I’m always happy to oblige. You fell asleep while I was drawing and slumped sideways against my shoulder, sending my pencil streaking across the page. I wasn’t even annoyed, the intensity of the line transformed my simple sketch into something that could be mistaken for a commentary on the nature of our postmodern world or some equally pretentious first year art philosophy major bullshit. I actually thought you’d done it on purpose. But when I glanced over, you were dead to the world, your cheek hooked on the corner of my shoulder, pulling your lip up into an adorable, drooling sneer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I moved to adjust you, you didn’t stir. Even when I picked you up to carry you into the bedroom, you stayed asleep. Your metal arm and its scaffolding might add sixty or seventy pounds to you, but to me you weigh barely anything. I can’t help but grin when I think of how yet again our worlds have swapped. How many nights did I pass out at our rickety little table and wake to being gathered into your arms just like I’ve gathered you now? I wasn’t always asleep, not really. I could have been stubborn and shuffled to bed myself. But there’s something about sleep that grants permission to be vulnerable. It’s universal in a way, and though I suspect that like me, you weren’t as unconscious as you feign, there’s a level of trust there that I didn’t think was possible in your state. I won’t be the one to break it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stayed awake all night, shifting between quiet distractions as I listened to your breathing purr beside me. Not like the chainsaw snore I’m capable of, one of the last remnants of my sickly body and too many back alley fights. Even the serum couldn’t fix how many times my nose has been broken. Your soft noises make a peaceful backdrop to counteract my anxious mind. I scroll social media and worry about tomorrow. I read my favorite book for the hundredth time and wonder what I’ve overlooked. I lose three rounds of some word game with Tony and rethink my life. He’s probably cheating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before I’m ready, Tomorrow has become Today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The entire morning is a blur, but if your unimpressed stare and frequent sighs are any gauge, I might be acting a little dramatic again. We’re both bathed and presentable. We’re both fed and the dishes are cleaned and put away as if they key to this going smoothly is the presentation of my suite. I laughed to myself as I put the last of the plates in the cabinet. The whole idea is ludacris and superstitious. I spend the next few hours stress cleaning the entire suite as if my life depended on it. As if yours did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s somewhere after the third time you bark my name to get my attention, raising your brows as if to tell me ‘that’s enough, come sit down’ when there’s a knock at the door. I’m halfway through telling you for the third time that I’m almost done when I straighten so quickly I crack my skull on the bottom of an open cabinet door. You grimace sympathetically while I check that the hinges haven’t broken and fighting through the hesitation that locks my knees, go to answer the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re on your feet before the door is open, visibly reading me to see how to react. I wish I could say I was the model of zen peace, that I was a prime example of stoicism and calm in the face of an uncertain situation, but I’m pretty sure I called Clint ‘Sam’ twice and completely blanked on Nat’s name despite her being one of my closest friends. To their credit, they took it in stride, and soon our apartment was three people fuller. Sam offered a lazy greeting as if this were the most normal situation in the world and immediately went to scour the fridge. Clint had brought some sort of game station and immediately started offloading consoles and controllers and wires and something I can’t entirely place, chattering away about this ‘great new game’. My first and only question is if it’s a shooter and he levels his uncharacteristically unamused gaze at me and asks if I take him for an idiot. I don’t answer that, it would only hurt his feelings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three new people feels like two people too many in the apartment, but there was no great fanfare, no dramatic introductions. Just a New Normal thrust upon us. I watch how you respond to them, on your feet and alert, but not tense. Clint on his hands and knees setting up his game to our TV earns only a cursory skim before you decide he’s not a threat. Sam earns a longer stare, but I can’t tell if it’s because of the bulge of a sidearm under his light jacket has made you wary, or if you’re feeling territorial over the contents of the fridge we’d gone through so much drama to stock. He rises with two beers in each hand and bumps the door shut with his hip, and your frown releases into a curious squint.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nat is the one who, like me, is struggling to subscribe to the forced normality of this. I realize all at once that I’m not the only one whose life has been impacted by you. By your past. To me, you were my best friend, someone so ingrained in the whole of me that your loss was grievous wound I would never full heal from. Your death is my biggest failing. Your violent transformation is my fault. Everything you’ve done since then was not you, deeds done by a phantom forced into your skin, into your skull. But Nat…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...Nat knows you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first I wrote her wariness off to the fact that you are -- were? -- the Winter Soldier. A ghost story. Unstoppable, unfindable, unknowable. Walking into a room to meet your gaze must be like being face to face with the Baba Yaga or the Jersey Devil. You’re not yourself. But you’re not somebody else. To hear it told, you were her own personal nightmare. Her own blood and body were not even an obstacle to stop you from completing you mission. You’ve almost killed her more than once. The realization struck me and I felt a surge of guilt for putting her in this situation. Do you remember what you did? Did you have any control? Has she just willingly walked into her own nightmare for my sake? My stomach twists and I was about to go to her, tell her she didn’t have to do this for me, when your eyes lock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a flicker there and your brows twitch ever so slightly. For a long moment, neither of you say anything, and when she speaks it’s in Russian. To my surprise, you respond in kind. All at once I realize that Nat doesn’t just know you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She calls you a name I don’t recognize and your eyes flicker again, the same way they do when I tell you stories about our childhood. In Russian, she tells you it’s been a long time. You agree, quietly. Softly. Hesitantly. You’re more than a ghost story. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. I don’t know what I should be thinking. I don’t know why the silence between you feels so very loud. There’s a conversation going on between your eyes, but for once, it’s not one I am a part of. My stomach knots for a different reason. As she moves closer to you, something at my ankles distracts me and I look down at Clint trying to get my attention. Apparently Sam was calling to me and it took a deaf man to point it out. I don’t want to look away, but I’m eager for the escape. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I help him open the beer bottles and take one to nurse on while we watch you interact. I ask him what he thinks and he just nods and says it’s as good as to be expected. I ask if he thinks this -- any of this -- was a good idea and he bursts out laughing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. God no. This was a terrible idea, but you’re the King of Terrible Ideas.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I have no words to tell him how offended I am by that, but from his reinvigorated laughter, it’s pretty clear my face says plenty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on man, I’ve been convinced since I met you that the reason you run so damn fast is to try and outpace your own insanity,” He chuckled and took another long drink. “But this? I dunno. If anyone could pull it off, it’s you. And so far so good.” He knocks the bottom of his bottle to mine and I relax just a little more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint has hooked up his system and started it up, calling you over. The devices I didn’t recognize are apparently speakers, and he’s taken off his shoes to press the sole of his foot to one of them to better feel the beat the music. You seemed reluctant, even skeptical at first, but went to join him on the floor. I keep an ear trained on his one-sided conversation as Nat comes over to snag a beer. She seems calmer, satisfied with whatever she saw in you. I’m feeling calmer too, and she and Sam catch me up on what I’ve missed. I try to keep the two conversations separated in my mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently Tony’s been wrist deep in some new nano-tech stuff, which explains why he was up as late as I was last night. Clint is explaining the background of the game, an evil wizard has stolen the heart of the character and she needs to retrieve it to escape. Sam scoffs loudly, wondering if it’s actually any new science or if Tony is just throwing around the word ‘nano’ the way they throw around the word ‘quantum’ in Star Trek. I’ve never seen Star Trek so I just shrug and say it feels scientific to me. I was wrong, the wizard is actually a NecroDancer -- did I hear that right? -- and heart will only beat if she moves in time to the music. I’m puzzling over how and why </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clint</span>
  </em>
  <span> would be playing a game that relies so heavily on hearing but then I realize that Clint is Clint and that Sam is challenging me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> it ‘feels scientific’, that’s my whole point. You’re telling me in your time there weren’t buzz words that could make things sound scientific if they weren’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I thought about it for a second, then shrugged. “I was blasted with ‘vita-rays’, but those were… ya know, a thing.” I said, gesturing down at myself. “So I guess I kinda get your point. Anything ‘ray’ or with a wild suffix like ‘mogrifier’ or ‘combobulator’ or something was enough to sound science-y.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint started up the game and as advertised, the music was rhythmic and pretty catchy. He bobs his head to it, showing you how to play, but you’re staring at the screen fixated. I look away when Sam asks Nat what sort of buzz words she grew up with and she just laughed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You and I were raised very differently,” she teased him and I mirror his raised brow. She sighed and hunted for an explanation. “I’ve been around long enough that if it’s got a crazy word attached to it, it’s not for real. Unless it is. In which case it definitely isn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay now I’m lost and she grins and shakes her head, taking the beer from my hand. “You gonna drink this or you just going to milk it til it’s warm, Rogers?” She asks, wasting no time downing half of it. I don’t mind, beer doesn’t grant me the luxury of a buzz anymore and there are far better soda flavors than ‘bread’. When I tell her as much, she just rolls her eyes. “Then we’d better make sure they don’t go to waste.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I grab myself a soda and pull the cap off with my thumb. Sam’s surprised blink reminds me that this particular bottle usually needs an opener. Whoops. I turn my attention to Nat again. “Are you sure you’re okay with all this? I know he shot you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Twice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Twice. Yeah.” Embarrassed, I don’t know what to do with my free hand beside run it through my hair. “...You didn’t have to come you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” she agreed, leaning with her back against the counter between Sam and I, watching you and Clint play. He’s died already and handed the controller over. But the stern concentration on your face and the slack in his jaw tells me you’re pretty good at it. “Rogers.” She says, as if coming out of her own thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Romanoff.” I respond.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If the situation was reversed… If it was…” She gestures in the air with the bottle as she hunts for the word. “If it was Clint who was damaged --”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean he’s not?” Sam murmurs. Nat ignores him and continues.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, then if it was me. And I was the dangerous one. If I’d been the one who was being… Whatever you want to call this.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Rehabilitated? Cured?” Sam offers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Reprogrammed,” She decides. And then she turns those green eyes to me. I can’t read them, but there’s something there to be read. “If I’d tried to kill you. If I’d tried to hurt you and hunt you. Would you trust that I could be saved?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I think on the question, taking a long drink from my soda. It reminds me of home, even though you have to get bottles from Mexico now to make it taste like it used to. My sigh fogs the back of the glass neck. “Yeah,” I finally say, looking at her. “Yeah. I would. If you went through what he went through? Even if I didn’t know you… No one chooses to be like that… No one… No one </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be a machine or an animal. Everyone should have a chance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even if I was dangerous?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Especially if you were dangerous,” I say, nudging her gently. Her expression was starting to get dark, but a soft grin finally breaks through the overcast. In the other room, you growl and Clint lets out a yowl of despair. You’ve died and hand the controller back to him for his turn. I can’t help but smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay but what if you didn’t have a serum, Tough Guy?” She teases, turning to jab me in the ribs. I squeak despite myself, which makes Sam laugh. For some reason, my ticklishness has alway been a source of endless amusement for them. “What then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I bat at her hand and smirk. “You think the serum makes me bold? You are sorely mistaken, it makes me more cautious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bullshit,” Sam says with a smirk, putting his bottle in the sink and going for another beer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I’m serious. Back then? I would pick a fight at a drop of a hat --”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Weren’t you like --” Nat held out her hand to gesture someone waist high. I laugh and gesture lower.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I was real little. No chance of winning but that wasn’t the point ya know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright I’ll bite,” Sam asked, halfway through his second beer already and looking relaxed. “What was the point then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I paused and shrugged. “...The point was that </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> should stand up to bullies and assholes and loud mouths. Didn’t matter if I was going to end up with a broken nose or a black eye or another loose tooth, what mattered was that someone stood up to them. What mattered was that maybe if someone saw someone like </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> stand up to them when I didn’t stand a chance well… Maybe they’d be more willing to step up the next time, ya know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two were quiet, staring at me, before Sam made a motion with his bottle. “Sooo you had a death wish then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No -- well. Maybe. A little. But the point is, now that I’m bigger, I can actually hurt someone. And hurting people was never the point. Ya know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nat was grinning then, that bright mischievous grin she got when she thought she was getting under my shield. “Is it true you tried to protect yourself with a trash can lid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I admitted sheepishly. “A newspaper once, too. Ask me how well that worked out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How well did that work out,” the two obediently parroted back in a near monotone. I glance at you and Clint. It’s your turn again. You must be much better at this than he is, because he’s made himself comfortable as if he doesn’t anticipate his turn is coming any time soon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s just say it worked out better in the cartoons.” I finished my own bottle and sighed, playing with the glass before adding it to the sink to join Sam’s. Nat was studying me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I like it when you’re like this,” She finally said and I raised a brow at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like this. Relaxed. You’re always so… Serious and on the job. It’s nice to remember there’s a person under all of that, ya know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I roll my eyes, but I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “Yeah, well… I guess sometimes I need a reminder of that too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Awww!” The level in Sam’s bottle has somehow gotten higher, and I realize he’s polished off his second and is well into his third. “That’s so sweet, group hug.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I laugh but indulge him, yanking him so close and so abruptly that now my shirt smells like hops. I hug him tight, then clasp my hands against his spine and tug, sharp but not enough to hurt him. One two three, right up his back and I can hear the series of pops as he groans in relief in my ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Warn a man first,” He says loosely shaking the rest of the tension out of his shoulders. “You just like the noise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I live for the noise. Come here, Nat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pop my back and I pop your groin,” she warns, but allows me to hug her. Her threat makes giving her a good crack so tempting, but I resist. Its her fingers that walk along my muscles instead and she clicks her tongue. “You’ve been tense a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah I’ve had a lot going on,” I joke as I release her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, really? Assume the position.” She gestures with a twirl of her finger and I turn around to brace against the counter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Massages don’t work on me, the only person to be able to make a dent was Tony with both gauntlets once, and even he complained that it was too much effort. My muscles might as well be cords of iron -- which means when they knot, I either get real into yoga or live with the pain. Nat, however, discovered what she likes to call ‘percussive therapy’ -- meaning she punches the crap out of my back until the knots release. It feels great for me, and is therapeutic for her. Win win. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I brace both hands on the counter and spread my shoulderblades, letting her walk her fingers along to find where most of the tension is. I can feel the rhythm of the music of your game in the countertop and wonder how you’re doing. Every level has a different beat I’ve noticed, and I’ve heard quite a few so far. I hope you’re having a good time. I hope this is helping. Nat digs her thumb into a particularly bad knot and I groan, even though I can feel her joint strain from the effort. She steps back and I watch her reflection as she takes a fighting stance, then starts to pepper my back with blows. As usual she’s precise and strong and I grunt with the impact of each punch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I see the blur of motion before I hear her gasp and I’m moving before my mind registered what’s happened. You’re fast, but I’m faster, and I catch your metal wrist in my hand before you can grab her. There’s a quiet fury in your eyes, locked on her like a wolf. The motors in your arm strain and there’s a high pitched whir in my ear. I recognize the glow of the Widow Bite against my cheek, aimed at your face. Sam’s pistol is up and out, but your eyes are on Nat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Drop it! Drop it!” Sam is yelling, and you try to shift but I refuse to let go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! Stop! Nat, stand down--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve.” Her voice is calm, too calm, and Sam is still yelling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sam, drop your weapon! Nat -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand down!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Your eyes flit to the pistol, then to Nat again. I can see how fast the thoughts are moving behind your eyes, running through every possible scenario. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve, he’s dangerous!” Sam shouts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well you’re scaring him!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Scaring him?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” I half expect Sam to turn the gun on me instead. Your arm whirs again, testing my grip. I refuse to give you an inch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nat, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand down! Now!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steven,” Nat repeats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Steven!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You growl at me, and the single word holds so much weight. You demand I let you protect me. You demand I release you to deal with the threat. You question my judgement right now. There’s a lot of that going around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Buck, she’s not hurting me, I promise. Nat, stand down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve, he’s --”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Do it!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The roar that escapes me startles even myself, and she steps back, dropping her arm and her weapons with it. I hear Sam lower his pistol as well, and slowly the tension in your arm loosens. “She is not attacking me. I’m safe.” I speak and your eyes slowly move to meet mine. The anger evaporates.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve…” You say. Softer this time. You want to protect me. There’s fear there too, but I’m not sure as to what. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bucky, you’re okay,” I whisper and the realization of what just happened comes into your eyes. Your mouth works wordlessly, and I feel the wave of nausea as if it were my own. Fear shines clearly now. Fear of what you just did. Fear of what you could have done. What you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>planning</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do. When you try to draw your arm away I let you, and you clutch it to your chest like a weapon you desperately want to be rid of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re okay,” I repeat, but your eyes are wet and you turn and run, out of the kitchen, over Clint’s legs where he hasn’t moved from his spot, into the safety of our room with a slam of the door. My breath comes out in a rush and all at once I’m shaking. No one moves. Not Sam, with his muzzle aimed at the ground. Not Nat, with her bites powering back down into standby. Not Clint, still holding the controller to his paused game in one hand and his foot on a speaker, watching us with an expression I can’t read. Disapproval maybe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t know what just happened. I know it wasn’t your fault. I won’t let this ruin everything we’ve done. Not when we’ve come so far.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I need you to trust me, Buck. I need you to trust my trust in you. And right now I need to catch my breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-Steve</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. (Schedule update)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>(I was trying to avoid this, but unfortunately an update is needed. This series not cancelled or on hiatus, we've only just begun. However a mix of literal and metaphorical fire, as well as some health issues are forcing this to be delayed. I feel terrible, and I'm sorry I've let you down....</p><p>Ideally my plan is for updates to resume in the next couple of weeks. I haven't forgotten about you, and I haven't forgotten about this. I'm sorry, please be patient with me. 2020 is an awful year.</p><p>I love you all.</p><p>-R)</p>
  </div></div>
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